


Sorry It Took Me So Long

by miinterlude



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Azkaban, Draco Malfoy-centric, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Pining, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29728362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miinterlude/pseuds/miinterlude
Summary: Navigating life after the Battle of Hogwarts and imprisonment, Draco finds himself the victim of horrible visions of death- or are they even visions? Witches and wizards lives lie in his feeble, unsteady hands, and he cannot save them on his own.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Sorry It Took Me So Long

“Ah. . . Ms. Thorington. A pleasure to see you again,” Draco said, stepping back to allow the parole supervisor inside his apartment.  
She peered behind Draco, a look of distaste poorly masked behind her large round glasses. If he had not known how severe the woman could be, he might have laughed at the fact that she stood a foot shorter than him; however, her demeanor alone was enough to send chills racing down his spine. It was similar to the way he had felt whenever McGonagall stared at him with her piercing gray eyes.Thorington even wore her graying hair in the token tight bun McGonagall was accustomed to. She hobbled across his threshold, the look of repugnance quickly spreading to her thin lips as well. “Yes. I’m sure it is.” She took off her raisin-colored cloak and hung it on the rack by the door. “I see you haven’t bothered to decorate as I had suggested at our last check-in,” Thorington said, looking at the walls with her black eyes as if they had personally offended her.  
While she faced away, Draco took the opportunity to roll his eyes. There were going to be plenty more times where he’d want to do so in her presence, so he might as well get it out of his system.  
Feigning a tone of utmost regret, he said, “Oh, yes. I need to get on that right away.”  
Thorington only responded with a little “hmph” as she roamed around the rest of Draco’s apartment, casting spells that would detect items of great destruction—or really anything that would give her cause to toss Draco back in Azkaban.  
Well acquainted with the—for it was Thorington’s fourth visit—Draco set to his kitchen to make them cups of tea. Thorington continued to shuffle around his apartment, making sure everything looked up to the Ministry’s standards and a few of her own.  
He sighed as he placed the lid on the heating tea kettle. These visits were supposed to start thinning out soon if he gave them no reason to continue. Still, it would be a long time before he saw the last of the woman.  
The tea kettle began hissing.  
Draco murmured, “And in Three. . . Two . . . One. . .”  
Thorington burst in, wand poised, ready to strike. Her head snapped back and forth, trying to find the source of the noise. Her flint-like eyes landed on the tea kettle, and it took every bit of Draco’s self-restraint not to laugh at the ridiculous look on her pale face.  
“Here you go,” Draco said, handing the designated cup of tea to her and adding a splash of milk to his own. How she drank that stuff black was beyond him, but he figured he’d always had a sweet tooth.  
She wordlessly accepted it, eyeing it suspiciously as she had done the last three visits. “Earl Grey?” she asked.  
He nodded. “The very same. Have you concluded your physical review?”  
Squinting down at the papers in her other hand, she nodded. Before Draco could get a good look at what was on it, she had shuffled them, so a clean form sat on top. “Yes. . . now we may commence the interview portion.” She didn’t wait for a response before exiting the kitchen and rudely making herself comfortable in Draco’s favorite chair.  
Calling it his “favorite” would imply a lot of other competition, but the only other decent seat in the room was the sofa perpendicular to it.  
After purchasing the couch, Pansy had informed him the correct term for it was “loveseat,” which almost made Draco throw it out completely. Sitting down on it, he suppressed a scowl. Damn Pansy.  
A few weeks after his release from Azkaban, he had sat cozied up with a book, when a knock sounded on his door. At first, he’d wondered if Thorington had dropped by for a surprise visit. He certainly wouldn’t have put it past her. But when he opened the door, he met the familiar, yet aged face that belonged to Pansy. She had held up a bottle of rosé in greeting, and they had picked up where they left off.  
A small smile tugged at his lips as he relived their intoxicated reunion.  
“Something funny?” Thorington asked, snapping him out of his head and effectively ruining his mood again.  
He forced a blank but pleasant look on his face. “Not at all.”  
Another suspicious look.  
“Well, let’s begin then.”  
She waved her wand. A quill shot out of her purse and began floating above the form in her lap.  
She spoke into her wand as if it was a microphone— a muggle invention he’d recently learned of. “Parole supervisor: Aleesha Thorington. Subject: Draco Malfoy. Age: 18. Fourth week of parole after six months served in Azkaban. Remainder of parole: five months.” The quill vigorously wrote, not missing a single word.  
This whole process made Draco uneasy. It reminded him that, somewhere in the Ministry, a whole file dedicated to every move he made existed. Every shameful piece of history was in there, and any more shameful deeds he committed from here on out were bound to end up there as well.  
Thorington muttered a few more official details before turning away from her form to face Draco. They both hated this next part. It would no longer be about documenting official details but more of a mini counseling session—a part of her job Draco was sure Thorington hated the most.  
She shifted in the elegant, green armchair. “Well. . . first question: how are you fairing?” The question looked as if it physically pained her to ask, even though it wasn’t the first time she’d had to ask.  
Just like each time before, Draco found himself wondering how to answer it. Well, he wasn’t in his dingy cell anymore, so that was an improvement. And he supposed that lately, save for a few incidents, he had been doing just fine.  
“Good. . . I think,” he said. She raised a thin eyebrow at him, wordlessly signaling for him to elaborate. “Well, um. . .” Merlin, he hoped the quill blocked out his awkward filler words. “Well, I told you a few weeks ago that Pansy and I have become reacquainted. Things have been going well with her.”  
“How so?”  
“We’ve been getting a lot closer- much closer than we were at Hogwarts. We’re just spending lots of time together.” He paused. “I’m actually going to visit her at work tonight.”  
Thorington’s mask of indifference barely rippled. “Oh?”  
“You and Pansy: How would you describe your relationship?”  
Draco choked a little on his tea. “E-Excuse me?”  
“You mentioned a few visits ago that you and Pansy briefly dated during school. Has your reunion caused any. . . former emotions to surface?” Thorington looked just as uncomfortable as Draco, and he began to wonder if this part of the visit was even necessary.  
“Er. . . no. We only dated in school for the uh. . . experience-” _“-And Pansy has a girlfriend,” he added.  
This new information caused a peek of curiosity to show on Thorington’s face, and Draco hoped with all his might that she wouldn’t ask any more about his nonexistent love life. But luck was never in his favor.  
“And have you been seeing anyone?”  
_“No. Not really interested at the moment.”  
Taking a moment to sip her cuppa, she nodded. “Alright, then.” She glanced at her form. “Ah, have you communicated with your mother lately?”  
“We owl each other occasionally, but I haven’t seen her since I moved out a few weeks ago.”  
“And your father?”  
His stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “No.”  
Thorington nodded as if she understood. A bitter taste rose to the back of his throat and he swallowed it.  
“Well, based on my last few visits with her, your mother seems to be doing considerably well, given her circumstances.”  
He tipped his head in acknowledgment. His mother’s “circumstances” were sitting comfortably at home while his father wasted away in Azkaban. In the brief letters they’d exchanged, there was no mention of this, which was fine by him. His feelings towards Lucius were a tangle of confusion and anger that he had no interest in unraveling any time soon—or ever.  
Of course, he felt for his mother to some degree. It would be foolish to believe that having your life-long partner in prison wasn’t a tremendous weight to bear. Still, it beat being in there yourself.  
Narcissa had only stayed in Azkaban for two weeks leading up to her trial, where she had been sentenced to stay in the country and receive weekly visits from a parole supervisor for six months. When Draco first heard of her “punishment,” he was shocked—and a bit indignant— to hear she had gotten a slap on the wrist, while he had spent half a year in prison.  
Yes, his mother hadn’t been a branded Death Eater like Draco, but she was as good as one. And Draco had joined as a child. Didn’t that count for something? No: All that mattered to the Ministry was that every wizard or witch fit into their tight little “good” or “evil” categories.  
But Narcissa had not gotten off on a mere technicality. If it weren’t for Potter testifying for her, she would probably be stuck in a cell alongside her husband. Draco had been shocked to hear of Potter’s testimony, until she revealed the lie she had told to save the boy’s life: another rocking surprise. Narcissa had waved off Draco’s disbelief and told him the only thing that mattered to her at the time was her family’s safety.  
While her intentions were by no means selfless, they still left Draco with a new perspective of his mother. It made him want to try to pick up the pieces of their relationship that the war had left.  
“My mother. . .” Draco began, not looking at Thorington and instead stared determinedly down at the Earl Grey in his hands. “Has she talked about my father at all?”  
“That is a subject she tends to avoid,” Thorington responded. Draco knew there was more to that answer, but was equally sure the supervisor had no interest in telling him. He raised the yellow mug to his lips, in which the contents were growing lukewarm.  
He cast a silent warming charm: He only liked drinking tea when it was just cool enough not to burn his tongue off, but still hot enough to leave a trail of warmth down his throat. After a small sip, he nodded in approval.  
Thorington eyed the wand in his free hand. “Have you made any progress with writing the letter we discussed?”  
No. And it’ll be a miracle if I even write it. “No, not yet.”  
“I know you are by no means required to write it, and it would make it quite insincere if I were to force it from you, but I do strongly urge you to do so. I believe it would go a long way to mending your relationship with Mr. Potter.”  
“I’m not sure that I care about mending my relationship with him.” The words were out before he could stop them, and he began mentally kicking himself for the slip. Judging by the look on Thorington’s face, she was wanting to do just the same.  
“Yes. I’m sure it is difficult for you to get over your. . . schoolboy rivalry, but he is the reason for your reduced sentence, and that is no small favor.” The contempt in her voice was poorly hidden and left Draco with the urge to strangle her. Taking another drink of his tea to temporarily obscure his face, he strung together any and every insult and imagined how good they would feel to roll off his tongue.  
Potter had not only spoken on his mother’s behalf but Draco’s as well. It was an event that still left his mind in disarray whenever he recalled it. Willing the memories away, he continued to think up more worthy names for Thorington.  
He had just come up with “old bat” when she moved on, saying, “I see you have a new wand.”  
“New wand? Oh. . .” A glance down at the Hawthorne stick. “Yes. . .”  
Suspicion flashed across Thorington’s face.  
“It’s an old wand. I just started using it again,” he remedied.  
His explanation did not seem to allay her wariness. “May I see it?”  
Knowing refusal would only make the woman’s concerns grow, he reluctantly handed it to her.  
She pointed her light, stubby wand at Draco’s. “Prior Incantato!”  
White, hot air erupted from the tip of the wand and clouded his vision of her.  
“What-” he began.  
She hushed him and repeated the spell. A faint beam of light replaced the pale steam: Lumos.  
Again and again, she repeated the spell. Each time, the ghost of an old spell would reappear before them only to be replaced with another. After what Draco thought to be the tenth household spell, a flash of scarlet light erupted between them and began to mingle with a faint source of green light. The light show faintly reminded him of Christmas.  
Thorington looked satisfied with whatever conclusion she had drawn. “Here you go,” she said, handing back the wand.  
“What was that for?” he asked, feeling incredibly bewildered.  
She muttered something and the quill began writing again. “Just an experiment.”  
Realization dawned on Draco. The green and red light: The disarming charm meeting the killing curse. The last spell Potter had performed with Draco’s wand.  
It was true that the wand was not new; in fact, it was the first he’d ever had. And for almost two years, he had lost it. Maybe “lost” wasn’t the right word. “Had it stolen by a stupid git” was probably more accurate.  
Even after the war and his prison sentence were long over, Draco’s pride wouldn’t allow him to owl Potter for his wand, so he ordered a new one: An 11” Larch wand with the tail feather of a thunderbird.  
On paper, it was a good wand. The Larch wood supposedly instilled the user with confidence: something Draco severely lacked. He had paid a hefty amount for it as well, yet the wand felt foreign and cold in his hands—like a stranger's. Spells that would usually require minimal strength and concentration now sapped all of his energy. It was a miracle, if he could manage a higher level spell.  
While his poor wandwork had disheartened him severely, he decided shelling out more galleons for a new one wouldn’t be worth it. So, for two weeks, he used the poor excuse for a wand. Then, on his way back from Pansy’s three nights ago, he found a small brown package propped against his door.  
If it weren’t for the “DM” scrawled in red, he would have thought someone accidentally placed it there. Inside, the 10” Hawthorne wand with a core of unicorn hair laid amidst a layer of magical protection paper.  
So wrapped up in his jubilation at being reunited with his beloved wand, he hadn’t noticed the note lying beneath the paper until a few days later, when he almost threw it out amidst a cleaning spree.  
The note consisted of one line written in the same messy handwriting as on the package: “Sorry it took me so long.”  
Short and impersonal, so why did it make his head dizzy trying to decipher it? Why even include the note?  
He looked at Thorington, twirling his wand nervously. Was it public knowledge that Potter had defeated the Dark Lord with this very wand? He didn’t get a chance to ask.  
Checking the large, antique watch on her left wrist, she said. “I see our time is almost up. I have a few more questions and then I will be out of your. . .” she glanced distastefully at the silver locks resting on his shoulders. “. . . hair.”  
Subtle.  
“Alright,” he said.  
“Let’s see.” Her eyes scanned the form. “Have you managed to find a suitable place of employment?”  
Shit. “Not yet. No,” he murmured, not meeting her eyes.  
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I hope I don’t need to remind you that finding a job within six weeks is one of the terms of your parole, and breaking this term would require me to do something undesirable.”  
Draco was sure she would fancy nothing more than to see him back in Azkaban, but only said, “Yes. I understand.”  
The tight expression in her lined face softened just a fraction. “If you require assistance, I can contact some colleagues.”  
“That won’t be necessary.”  
She squinted at him. “If you say so.” With a wave of her wand, the quill that had previously floated above the form became limp once more. Shuffling her items into the satchel around her neck, she stood, half-drained teacup in hand.  
“Allow me,” Draco said. Thorington nodded and handed over the cup, which Draco sent into the kitchen with his own.  
She moved to the door and began buttoning her cloak up. “These visits have been going well. If you continue this, we could be looking at biweekly or even monthly visits until the end of your parole.”  
The very idea improved Draco’s mood tenfold. “I intend to continue my streak of good behavior. I’ll put more effort into my search for employment.” He stopped for a moment. “Also, I will attempt to send a letter of thanks to Mr. Potter.”  
He hadn’t wanted to say this last bit, but he’d commit a few unpleasant actions if it meant Thorington’s visits would begin to thin.  
Draco opened the door for her and she stepped out, plunging her arm into her bag, looking for her wand.  
She found it and turned to Draco. “When you write Mr. Potter that letter, be sure to include your thanks about him returning your wand.”  
A second later, she had spun on the spot more gracefully than what Draco thought possible for a woman of her old age. With a crack, she was gone.  
I guess it is public knowledge.__

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wrote this fic all the way back in summer of last year!! I never published it but figured why not? Anyway, hope anyone who read this enjoyed.


End file.
